Something To Leave Behind
by Sprints 100
Summary: A short story about Jake's past, which he writes and leaves with Mr. Kloppman. '...sometimes the past is so real, it gets confused with the now.'
1. Crickets

**Author's Note:** I'm still having trouble writing that story for Queenie, and it's driving me crazy. So I decided to write another story, to get my mind off of it. Again. I was sitting there, wondering what to write, and the only thing I could hear was a cricket outside my window. That's how this got started.  
Much of my inspiration came from Jake's chapter in the fic _Alone_, by Stretch1. The link is in my favorites, if you're interested.

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Jake, or anything Newsie-related. The idea that Jake came from down South (although I chose a different state) was inspired by Stretch1's fic, _Alone_ (Go read it. It's amazing.) But that's about the only thing... I changed his past and everything else to make it my fic, not Stretch1's.

Queenie, doll, this is for you. I'm so sorry your fic isn't getting done very quickly. And thank you for looking this over for me... you're the best!

This is only the prologue… sorry it's so short!

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Crickets chirping. I hear them every night. Not only in my dreams- sometimes when I'm awake too. But if I told anyone that, they'd think I'm crazy. There are no crickets in New York City, after all. 

It's this mind I've got. I'm not ashamed to say I got a vivid memory- I can recall things at the drop of a hat. But that means that sometimes the past is so real, it gets confused with the now. Like hearing the crickets, and plenty of other things. Waking up insanely early, for no reason at all; practicing my times tables in my head, when I have no use for them; slipping into my old accent, until I get surprised looks and snap out of it; hearing a laugh and recognizing it as amazingly familiar, only to find that nobody else heard it, and besides, that person is long out of my life...

I miss the past. If there was a path that lead back to it, I'd take it in a heartbeat.

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**A/N: **This definitely isn't my favorite of my stories... but I like it well enough. I might rewrite it one of these days, if I feel up to it. Tell me what you think.  
And what's this I hear about not being able to give shoutouts? That's so disappointing… So I'll just say thanks to all of you who reviewed _Perfect Aim_ and _Beautiful_. You all rock.  
And I'm expecting this to have about five chapters… I know... -gasp-... It's not a one shot. 


	2. From Cotton To Papers

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Jake or anything else from Newsies. Inspiration was found in Jake's chapter in the fic _Alone_, by Stretch1.

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I grew up in the South. Very far south from here. The first thirteen years of my life were spent on a little cotton farm in central Georgia. I still call it home. I didn't always like the early hours and farm chores, but compared to here, that place was Heaven on Earth. 

It was _green _(I miss the color green). Here, everything is gray. Even the snow, if you can call it that. It's better described as slush. We never got snow in Georgia, and I rather liked it that way.

New York is like a knife: cold, sharp, heavy, and hard. It doesn't suit me, not like the South did. Georgia was just the opposite: warm, light, and soft, just like the cotton we grew in the fields.

Our closest neighbors were half a mile away. We had space; we could move freely, without worries. Here, my neighbors on the street are half a foot away, and they complain if I make too much noise, or move too much and we accidentally collide. I feel trapped sometimes, in a city so crowded you can barely breathe.

It amazes me, but just thinking about the South has made my mind slip into a southern drawl. But you can't hear accents from words written on a page, of course.

I had a family down South. And friends, too. I even had a pretty girl, as young as we were at the time (it didn't seem to matter to us).

Here? Well, I've got friends. We get along just fine, but I'm not as close to any of them as they are to each other. They all grew up on the streets; I grew up on a farm. It's not the same life.

I have one thing that definitely separates me from all of them, except David and Les, of course. This may surprise you, but I've had an education. Six formal years of it, anyway. Not as much as I could've had, but more than most.

I missed school after I moved to the Lodging House. So I took to reading every single book that Mr. Kloppman owned, to fulfill my need for knowledge. It improved my vocabulary and writing skills even more. Most people always think of Specs as the big reader (it must be something to do with the glasses), but I think I've got him beat.

I enjoyed reading and writing the most at school. In fact, it's always been an ambition of mine to become some type of writer. I'm afraid to say that New York, along with my belief in the decency of all people, has crushed my hopes of achieving that particular aspiration… until now.

My dream is finally coming true. I've somehow managed to secure a job with the paper I've been selling for years, and now I'm assisting a real journalist with his stories, instead of peddling them on a corner. I'll mostly be doing proofreading and such, but you have to start somewhere. For me, it was at the very bottom: a newsboy.

If you're reading this, you're probably a newsboy yourself, and you probably got it from Mr. Kloppman. The story in it is mostly for him, curious old man that he is, but my intent for writing this story is purely for your benefit. Someone with a lot of dreams, but a lot of hard work to complete before accomplishing them.

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A/N: **Most of my chapters will be about this size... so this story isn't going to be very long. I don't know if that's good or bad, but that's what it is. Remember: this is a _brief_ history... I'm not one for long stories. In fact, I'm surprised I was capable of writing something other than a one shot.  
And if you spot a glaring error in my accuracy of anything… sorry for that. Haha. I'm not from the South. In fact, I'm from very far North.  
Answers to any questions you have will probably come in later chapters... that was Queenie's case, anyway.  
I believe a thank you is in order for those of you who reviewed the first chapter... so, thank you. I appreciate the comments. 


	3. What I Left Behind

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Jake, or Newsies. I did make up Jake's family, though. So I guess his mother, father, Rebecca, and Andrew are mine. I'll mention again that I got some of my inspiration (Jake being from the South) from Stretch1 in _Alone_.

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I never knew my mother. People always told me she was beautiful, with long black hair, sparking blue eyes, and a smile like no other. She died from complications after my birth. I never was as sad as the rest of my family about her passing because… well, I never knew her. However, I've always had (and always expect to have) a pang of guilt whenever the thought of her crosses my mind.

I can only assume that much of that comes from my siblings. Rebecca (never Becky or Becca) was seven years my elder and Andrew (not Drew or Andy) was one year older than me. Rebecca had known our mother the best, having spent the most years with her, and had sometimes looked down on me, almost blaming me for her death. She resented living a life with no mother.

Andrew hadn't known her as well, so he wasn't as troubled about having to grow up without her care, but he still saved a biting remark about the fact that she died because of me whenever I upset him.

Now don't get the wrong idea about Rebecca and Andrew- they were wonderful people, as good as they come, and I've always looked up to both of them. Rebecca, always the mature one, was almost a mother figure to me as I was growing up. She was the one that made sure Andrew and I went to school and got something of an education. And in doing so, learned to write.

Andrew and I were inseparable for our whole childhood, running our imaginations wild with rowdy games, and giving everyone, including our exasperated teacher, a hard time. "Partners in crime", my father would call us.

My father. Well, where all would say my mother was exceptional in her beauty and charm, they wouldn't hesitate to say that my father was not. He seemed average in every way possible, with a forgettable face, small income, and sometimes an embarrassing stutter. I still say he was the best man I've ever known. Never in the thirteen years that I knew him did he quit at anything. His family was his passion, and he made sure to raise all of us right, with manners, confidence, and love. I'm proud to say that I was named after him, although more recently I've taken on Jake to his Jacob (the only one in my family with a nickname).

I miss my father terribly. He died the day I left. Or rather, I left the day he died. Rebecca had been married to a man much like our father two years before, and no longer lived with us. Andrew was moving to live with a distant uncle, and was to inherit the farm at the age of eighteen. I was meant to go with him.

Instead I took a train to New York City, where I had decided there were bigger and better things to do. I didn't say goodbye to either of my siblings, and to this day, seven years later, haven't contacted them. I was thirteen years old and stupid, and I didn't realize at the time how much I was leaving behind.

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**A/N:** Thanks to all that reviewed the last chapter. Go see your name in my profile, if you want a shoutout.


	4. My Annie

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Newsies or Jake, but I guess I own Annie and her father. I rather like Annie as a character, too. I might use her in different stories, if I ever get around to it…

I've said it before, but I'll say it again. The inspiration for this story was partly from _Alone_, by Stretch1. And the crickets outside my window. But I don't have to credit the crickets.

This chapter's for **Tears in a Bottle**, who leaves such nice reviews for me. You're a doll.

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It may surprise you that the thing I miss the most about my childhood isn't my family. Not my bossy, mothering older sister. Not my best friend and older brother. Not even my hero: my father. 

I miss my Annie the most.

I call her mine to this day, yet I know she'd be terribly opposed to the term. Even seven years ago, when I last saw her, she had hated it, though I only used it teasingly.

Annie was our closest neighbor at half a mile away. Her daddy had the same occupation as most folks in the area, including my father: cotton farmer. But he was very unlike my father, who was skinny and stuttering. Annie's father was large and round, with a loud voice and an even louder laugh. The two of them got along famously, and so did the two of us.

I had known Annie for as long as I could remember. She was only six months older than me, but she never let me forget it. That girl had the strongest and most passionate personality I've ever come across, and that's saying something. She stood up to everybody, most often my bigger older brother, with no fear whatsoever. I never once saw her lose a shouting match. She was, without a doubt, her father's daughter.

With the same loud laugh as her father and her confident and overpowering attitude, she didn't match her appearance in the least bit. She was tall for a girl, but thin to the point of looking frail. Her hair was a dull dark blonde, and never stayed flat, much preferring to stick up like a madwoman's hairstyle. She had pale skin and a perpetual sunburn from our time spent playing outdoors. Her eyes I remember clearly as being big and brown as dirt. When she got older, Annie decided that she hated the way she looked, and told me so often. I thought she was the prettiest thing I'd ever seen, and I told her so once. That's how I got my first kiss.

When we were younger, Annie (having no siblings of her own) tagged along after Andrew and I, until her nagging and pushy personality eventually forced us to accept her as "one of us". In the months before I left, I had grown closer to her, treasuring her company even more than Andrew's. Probably because she was a girl and not related to me.

I would even go as far as to call her my girlfriend. She never technically accepted the role, but we acted like courting teenagers, so that's what we were.

She was the only girl I ever loved, and the only girl I've ever confessed love to. I told her on the day I left. In fact, she was the only one I said goodbye to.

She was real angry when I first told her I was leaving. Yelled like I've never heard her yell before, about me leaving her behind. I knew she wanted to come, but I didn't think New York City was the place for a lady. Now I know better. If any lady belonged there, she was the one. A girl like that could make it anywhere.

I walked away after saying goodbye with Annie still yelling at my back. All of a sudden she quieted and said in a sad, disbelieving voice, "You're really leaving, then?" I never heard her sound that disappointed.

I turned around and told her, "You know I love you, right?"

"Yeah." She said. And that's the last I've heard from her.

Her laugh, the exact same as her father's, haunts me to this day.

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**A/N:** Thanks for the reviews, all! You don't even realize how much I appreciate them. 


	5. Regrets

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Newsies or Jake. In this chapter, I borrowed one more idea from Stretch1 in _Alone_, namely: the fact that Jake was sad about never being given a nickname. So I'm crediting that here.

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I haven't spoken to anyone from my childhood for over seven years. Most would wonder why I haven't gone back for Annie, or sent my brother a letter, or visited the old farm. The only logical truth I can come up with is that I'm scared. I'm afraid I'll be disappointed, because everyone is different. You can't live through seven years and not change in the slightest. 

What if I contact them, only to find that my sister's dead, my brother's an alcoholic, the farm and my father's hard work has been destroyed, and that Annie doesn't want me, doesn't even want to speak with me she's so angry.

The memories I have are perfect. The people and places from my childhood rest on a pedestal. I don't want that image to come crashing down.

Maybe when I'm wiser, and when I'm a braver man, I'll send Rebecca my love, or Andrew a hello, or Annie my heart. But only when I'm ready to take the chance of being disappointed.

I regret leaving nearly every day. I've never really fit in up here, not like I did in Georgia. People have been fine enough… Kloppman's given me a place to stay, Jack's given me the experience of the strike, Pulitzer's given me a job, and the other newsboys have given me friendship, which I gratefully took. Now that many of the older ones have left, including me, we are desperate to keep in touch and hold on to that friendship that we all hold so dear.

One thing, however, has irked me for years. The only thing my friends here have failed to give me, and therefore, asridiculous as it sounds, never truly making me feel accepted: a nickname.

I suppose Jake is a nickname, short for Jacob, but how did I get by with Jake, when the rest were fondly deemed "Bumlets", and "Pie Eater", and "Racetrack", and "Mush"? Even Jack and David are sometimes referred to as "Cowboy" and "the Walking Mouth". I'm still just Jake.

Maybe they all sense that nicknames just don't run in my family, my siblings and father preferring to go by their given names, and call everyone else by their given names too, much to the annoyance it created (Annie hated it when they called her "Annabelle"). If only they could hear me now, calling my friends by names like "Kid Blink". Of course, they don't know who my friends are, or even if I'm still alive…

And so I leave my brief history here in the hands of kind old Mr. Kloppman, who I know will make good use of it. He already promised me he'd use whatever I wrote for him to help teach the young newsboys how to read and write- Rebecca knew, and I know now, how important that can be to a young boy's future.

The idea of leaving the story of my past appeals to me. It's something people will read in the future, and remember me by, long after I'm gone. It's something to leave behind…

I also wrote up my past because Mr. Kloppman was always curious about me, being the only one of his newsboys from so far south, and now he'll know all he needs to know about me. To most, a true New Yorker, but still a southern boy at heart.

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**A/N:** And so we end my very first completed chapter fic! I'm rather proud of myself, anyway… Thanks to all that reviewed along the way, and I hope you enjoyed it. 


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